


preceded by chaos

by elisela



Series: the trees of vermont [2]
Category: 9-1-1 (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Angst, Buck Begins, M/M, Pre-Relationship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-21
Updated: 2020-06-21
Packaged: 2021-03-04 04:14:35
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,120
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24843631
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/elisela/pseuds/elisela
Summary: It’s easy to find work tending bar, easier still to flirt with everyone who passes by, to spend every night in a different bed. He tells himself that he’s having fun; he’s young, he’s sowing his wild oats, he has plenty of time to settle down.He tells himself it doesn’t matter if nobody wants a second date, if they don’t even want a first.
Relationships: Evan "Buck" Buckley/Eddie Diaz (9-1-1 TV)
Series: the trees of vermont [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1790356
Comments: 26
Kudos: 246





	preceded by chaos

**Author's Note:**

  * For [thisissirius](https://archiveofourown.org/users/thisissirius/gifts).



> This runs concurrently to [beauty in the small things](https://archiveofourown.org/works/24756628) but I do think it's important to read that one first (or _again_ , if only to appreciate what a genius Siri is). There are small parts of this--excerpts from Eddie's book--that are taken from Siri's fic, or dialogue from the show.

_My parents haven’t always been disappointed in me, but they’re quick to remind me how often I’ve messed up._

_I should have gone to college._

_I should have married my son’s mother when she got pregnant._

_I should have given him up to them instead of coming back into his life, instead of taking away his stability, instead of thinking I could be enough for him._

_They wait for me to fail; I wait for it, too (Tango Uniform, p. 13)._

It’s junior year, and Buck is coasting.

He’s always been smart, bright—it’s the only time his parents have cared about him. They weren’t the type to understand love and affection, to be proud of anyone not themselves, but he had always tried. When he excelled at baseball, they called it not competitive enough, so he switched to football and was quickly ridiculed for wanting to damage his brain. The day he earned Eagle Scout, a local journalist showed up to write about his service project, and his father told him he needed to grow up and stop playing pretend. But academics—that’s another story. Buck makes honor roll in 6th grade and his mom takes him out to lunch, offers to buy him ice cream on the way home. He’s valedictorian at his high school graduation, and his parents send him and three friends to New York City for a long weekend with their credit card.

Buck gets accepted into the University of Pennsylvania, and his Dad buys him a brand new Jeep.

If he has anything to thank his parents for, it’s his love of learning, his drive to know more, to understand. It leads him down many paths, makes him knowledgeable, gives his mind something to do other than constantly wonder why he’s not good enough for them. So he throws himself into his coursework, decides to major in civil engineering because he’s always had an affinity for math and science and a fascination with bridges and railways, and when his father assumes that he’ll apply to law school afterwards, Buck lets him. 

He doesn’t bother mentioning the minor in history. 

He makes excuses for their absence to his friends, especially around homecoming and holidays, but by that point he’s just happy to not be a constant disappointment and enjoys the freedom his paid-for apartment affords. He doesn’t care that they never visit, his parents, despite being a short drive away.

Until one day they do.

Buck has never been scared of his father; he’s been taller, stronger since sophomore year of high school, and his parents have never been physically abusive. He’s never worried about him lashing out, an argument becoming out of control—his father would have to care about him to have an argument in the first place. But the look he gets when his father walks into his apartment one February morning and finds him curled up with Adrian on the couch while whispering words of affection makes him flinch, and for the first time in his life, he wishes for fists instead of words.

He’s a disappointment.

He always has been.

And no disappointment is going to get any benefits out of being a Buckley.

Buck manages to stay afloat until the end of the semester, crashing on couches or staying most nights with Adri, flirts his way into free meals at the student union and sorority houses, and has almost burned through his savings when Adrian invites him to come home with him over the summer. 

He calls Maddie, wants her advice, but she never answers, hasn’t since she married Doug the summer before his senior year of high school.

So he goes.

He has nowhere else to be.

He’s been out of the country before, but always to Europe, to places his parents deemed acceptable, cultured; South America will be new to him, and it’s calling his name.

_They tell you it’s a brotherhood, that shared experiences will pull you together, bond you in ways nobody else understands. It only helps when you’re in the midst of things, when you need to rely on each other to make it through, but it’s a false reality, an unbreakable bond that can disappear the second your life changes._

_I might have relied on them in helicopters and tanks, but there’s no one here to help now. My brothers have moved on_ — _rejoined their families, formed new bonds, and I am here, always, alone_ _(Tango Uniform, p. 54)._

Buck loves Rio de Janeiro, but more importantly, Rio de Janiero loves Buck. He’s a new person under the Brazilian sun; carefree, more flirtatious, uses his body language to communicate because his one year of Spanish in high school doesn’t cut it when everyone speaks Portuguese.

He’s always been good at giving people what they want, but in Rio, he becomes better. He learns that women like it when he’s cocky, when he gets in their space and lets them touch; he learns that men like it when he’s pretty, when he leans over and looks up through his eyelashes, when he bites his lips until they’re swollen and pink. 

He learns that being in love doesn’t mean anything at all. 

Adrian leaves on Wednesday, a careless glance thrown over his shoulder and _this was never going to be forever_ ringing in Buck’s ears. It’s a beautiful day, the mountains clear in the distance, but all Buck feels is a chill. 

He learns that your support system can vanish in a moment, that when you place your relationship in the center of your world, that only dust remains when it comes crashing down. 

And he learns that he can chase loneliness away with a different body each night: pressed up against a wall, flat on his back in the sand, bent over a bed, but at the end, he’s always alone. 

_It comes back in whispers, in waves. I’ve read that memory loss is a survival skill, a defense mechanism. I’ve seen the mission reports, I’ve been told what happened._

_My body carries the scars, but my mind cannot remember, not the way I wish it could. Instead, I dream about blood flooding between my fingers. The hollow click of an empty magazine. The sting of sand whipping my face._

_They told me I saved people, but not all of them._

_I wasn’t good enough to get them all home (Tango Uniform, p. 76)._

He doesn’t stay in Rio for much longer. He leaves with the last wave of tourists, follows a dark-haired girl to Miami after he fucks her in the back room of the bar and she lets him take her out for breakfast the next morning, and after a week and a half she tells him he’s fun, but.

It’s easy to find work tending bar, easier still to flirt with everyone who passes by, to spend every night in a different bed. He tells himself that he’s having fun; he’s young, he’s sowing his wild oats, he has plenty of time to settle down.

He tells himself it doesn’t matter if nobody wants a second date, if they don’t even want a first.

He tells himself it’s fine if all they want is to be seen with someone who looks like him, if all they want is to use his body for a bit of pleasure. So he sleeps around and learns how to touch people the right ways, how to make their bodies feel good, how to satisfy them. Buck likes making people happy, he’s always been prone to putting himself last, to making sure he gave more than he ever could take.

Because he wants it, he wants to take more than anyone has ever been willing to give. He wants, badly, for someone to love him, for someone to think he’s worth the time, worth the work to make him into someone worth loving, someone worth sticking around. 

It never works; he never makes them feel good enough to want him to try again. He is enough for a night, but he’s never going to be enough for a lifetime. 

_I didn’t want to re-enlist. I spent six months stateside, serving out the remainder of my contract, doing the math. I spent six months looking for a job that could cover medical bills, for a job that would give me enough time with my son and enough money to cover all of our expenses._

_I didn’t tell my parents about re-enlisting. They were already disappointed with me; I was too much of a coward to hear what they would have to say, because it all came down to this: my son deserves better than a father who would leave him._

_I tried, but in the end, I left him anyway (Tango Uniform, p. 103)._

Miami in February is depressing; the Spring Break crowd is still a month away, the holidays have died out, and he spends his time teasing middle aged women with wedding rings adorning their fingers for good tips and trying not to go too far.

He fails.

Spectacularly.

The third time he has to run out the back door to avoid an unexpected husband, he decides that Miami is probably not for him, so he hops in a car with two of his coworkers, clothes packed into his duffle, and drives halfway across the country to Corpus Christi. He tells himself he’ll be different, he’ll find what he’s looking for—no more one night stands—that it wasn’t _him_ that was the problem, it’s just that he hasn’t found the right place yet. He hates the person he’s becoming, this man who has given up on getting more and is too focused on getting off, too focused on being touched in any sort of manner to care about the mess he’s leaving behind him, to care that there are consequences to his actions.

Someone will love him, eventually. He has to believe that, has to still be a person who can love himself when he finds them. 

He’ll be different.

He tells himself this as they drive through Florida, as the flat landscape of Alabama turns into Mississippi and the sun fades on Louisiana. 

He’ll find what he’s looking for—no more one night stands.

They pile into one hotel room just before dawn. Buck’s anxious with the thought of new possibilities, itching out of his skin with what could be. The sun is rising on a new day—literally and metaphorically—and he’s going to be okay.

He just hasn’t found the right place yet.

When Sara reaches for him in the dark, he kisses her back, works his way down her body and goes down on her while Erik watches, slides over and sucks him off with her taste still on his lips and her hands in his hair.

He doesn’t stay in Corpus Christi long.

_Men don’t ask for help._

_Those are my father’s words. He’s full of wisdom like that: men need to be strong. Men don’t cry. Men don’t fuck up their lives by having a child out of wedlock and then not getting married. Men do the right thing._

_Men don’t ask for help. Needing help is a weakness, one you can’t afford._

_It took me a long time to admit that I couldn’t do everything on my own. It still burns to think about, makes me choke on the words. I hold them back, but I feel like I’m screaming them inside._

_I need help (Tango Uniform, p. 186)._

There’s a book abandoned on the bar when he comes in for his shift, spine unbroken, a pool of condensation dripping down the highball glass full of ice right next to it and reaching towards the pages. He tosses it under the bar as he cleans, next to three pairs of sunglasses and a phone.

The day shifts are always slow, but he likes them because he can flirt with the wait staff while cleaning glasses and doing side work. Likes it because he feels like he has friends, even if they don’t hang out much outside the bar.

He fell for Ali in a heartbeat when he made it to Los Angeles, because he always has fallen in love quickly. She’s pretty—he’s always preferred darker hair—and funny, but there’s something in her tone when she talks to him that he yearns for, something that tells him this is someone who wants more, who wants the same things that he does.

So he tries.

Tries not to fall into old habits (even though he thinks about her in his car, parked at the beach, his fingers pulling at a nameless blond’s hair as she rides him), tries to be serious (it was only a year ago that he was in school, building a future for himself that looked so different than this), tries to be enough to make her stay.

He works constantly, spends a lot on the grand gestures: takes her on a hot air balloon ride, whale watching, drives up to Big Bear for the weekend so they can lay on a blanket and look at the stars.

As long as he’s with her, as long as she’s pressed against him, fingers in his hair, laughter in his ears, he’s happy. Six weeks later, she tells him she’s moving back to New York; when he offers to go with her, she laughs.

He spends the rest of his shift morose, his laughter hollow, hands itching for something. The book is still wedged under the bar and he pulls it out for lack of anything better to do, examining the cover. Army green fatigues, endless sand, and a bloodied medallion hanging on a chain wrapped around a bruised wrist. The typewriter font of the title, _Tango Uniform_ , makes him snort, gives him the idea that it was probably written by some self-important jackass who went to war because he needed an M16 in his hands to feel strong. 

But he’s got 45 minutes left of his shift and little else to do until then, so he opens it up and starts reading.

Six hours later, he puts his head down on the table and cries. 

_Sometimes, being lost is not knowing how to get from where we are to where we want to be. To where we need to be._

_A few choice words can be the life raft you need to come home._

_To be seen. To be found. Isn’t that what we’re all searching for? (Tango Uniform, p. 174)_

He reads the book twice that night. The words sink into him, wrap around his heart, leave his throat burning in recognition of these feelings he has, written onto someone else, buried in their soul. Buck is not stupid, he knows he’s burning his life down. He knows that for as much as he wants forever, as much as his body aches for someone to come home to, someone to love him like he could love them, he gets further and further away from that with every new person he meets. 

Overt sexuality protects him from himself; he uses a good time as an excuse to not feel the weight of loneliness pressing down on him. He turns to sex to force a bond with people, to feel a connection that’s not there, to close his eyes and pretend that everything is okay, that he’s wanted in some kind of way, that it’s only a matter of time until he’s good enough.

He tried, with Ali, but it wasn’t enough because he wasn’t enough for _himself_ , because he’s not happy unless he has someone next to him, not happy unless he’s making someone else happy.

Buck is so lost that he’s not even sure where he really is, anymore. 

Maybe, though—maybe these can be his words. His life raft. Maybe he can make _himself_ a home, maybe he can love himself so that eventually, someone else will come along and complement him, because he’ll already be complete.

He just needs to remember them.

_No matter where I turn, there’s something reminding me of what a failure I am; of a son, of a father, of a brother. I have made mistakes that I can’t escape from, but that doesn’t mean I stop trying to be better. I can break out of a cycle I have forced on myself. I can fight the monster on my shoulder. I can silence the voice in my head. I can see the light beyond the shadow._

_It’s a hard fight, and I have a million reminders of the ways I am still failing, but I am strong enough to continue on._

_Change can always be a good thing (Tango Uniform, p. 58)._

He writes the words on his heart, an inked reminder to love himself first, and then he quits his job. 

Bartending has been good to him, has always made him enough money to live comfortably, but it’s always a gateway into behaviors he wants nothing to do with anymore, so he stops. He moves to San Diego, rents a room in a house that’s practically falling down around him and spends a few days wandering around the city, reading and rereading _Tango Uniform_ , memorizing every word, feeling like he’s back in high school with the way he picks it apart for meaning, for anything hidden that could help him. He looks up the author, hoping they’ll have written something else, more words that could help light his way. When he finds none, he spends hours at the library downtown, pulling other self-help books off the shelf and tossing them to the side in frustration when they all give the same advice.

Structure is something he craves, he realizes, something he needs to keep himself spiraling, and for a moment he considers joining the military. He takes the ASVAB and scores well, signs himself up for SEAL training because he’s always striven to be the best. He makes it through hell week and combat diving before he realizes he’s only trading in having too many emotions for having none, and drops out.

He falls into being a handyman just like he fell into bartending—the kitchen sink is leaking in his shared house, so he digs around for a wrench in the garage and fixes it. Then, because he has the tools out anyway and a complete lack of anything to do, he straightens the cabinet door in the laundry room that is sagging, tightens the loose hinges on the bathroom door, and is elbow deep in the faulty hot water heater when his landlord finds him and looks at him appraisingly.

It doesn’t make him much, but after a few months, he’s fixing up the property in lieu of paying rent: building a deck in the backyard, putting down new flooring throughout the house, painting. He sinks hours into reading and watching how-to videos, and using his hands to build makes him think of college, makes him realize he wants to go back. It leads him back to bartending, a way to get his savings back up, the place where a well placed wink and smile get handfuls of cash handed over night after night.

It’s easier now, to see a beautiful man in front of him and smile without pulling him behind the bar at the end of the night. He goes on dates here and there, but when things aren’t right, he doesn’t end the night with fucking them against a bathroom stall.

Usually.

The one time he does, he doesn’t hate himself afterwards. He accepts that change is difficult and that he’s going through a process, and he forgives himself.

_I’m still afraid of making the wrong decisions. My sister tries to talk me into what I already know, what I want, but I hesitate. I only feel comfortable in a war zone, in the hell I’ve made for myself; the only time I can trust in my own decision making._

_I don’t want my son to grow up like I did._

_I need to trust myself enough to take a risk (Tango Uniform, p. 186)._

He dreams of comfort.

There’s a cozy house, a blanket stretched over him, a solid, warm presence at his side, his hand in someone else’s, cheek pressed against a broad shoulder.

There’s a book in his lap, a fireplace in front of him, flames flickering shadows across the wooden floor, dancing across his vision.

There is belonging, there is love, he is at peace.

Outside, there is snow.

He leaves California in the morning.

_There are things my son will never be able to do. I haven’t told him that—I don’t want him to be like me, thinking his options are limited. I want him to have the world, to keep searching until he finds what he wants and throws himself into it._

_I don’t ever want to be the reason he holds anything back (Tango Uniform, p. 124)._

He doesn’t know why he chose Vermont. He’d left California and headed north, considering Oregon, maybe Washington, but then he’d found himself turning east onto I-80, driving through deserts and cornfields. He’d spent a few listless months in Chicago, considered the military again when he saw the Navy recruits running at Navy Pier, but his head kept going back to finishing his degree. 

He intends to go to Syracuse; filled out the transfer paperwork, begrudgingly submitted applications for student loans, but he can’t make himself stop driving until he hits Burlington. After the urban spawl he’s been living in for so long, Burlington is fresh air, an abundance of green. He feels at ease when he walks around downtown, when he drives past farms and fields, he feels like he can finally breathe.

He finds a place to live, bartends on the weekends, keeps his head down as he studies throughout the winter, easing himself back in by auditing a math class to make sure he’s not going to completely fuck up his chance at graduation. 

It’s early spring when he meets Chimney; he’s living in the spare room of an elderly man’s house, and idle hands have never been good to Buck, so he gets back into fixing the place up, and eventually starts building a treehouse in the backyard for Mark’s grandchildren to play in when they visit. He knows he’s being watched, shrugs it off as being easy on the eyes, and is fully prepared to politely decline a date when Chimney asks him to join his demo crew as a replacement for one of his injured employees.

Buck finds he loves a sledgehammer, but he likes putting things back together more, likes taking the broken pieces and fixing them, likes making things work again.

After a month, he meets Chim’s best friend, Hen, and starts having weekly dinners with them. A few weeks later, he’s introduced to Bobby, who owns a cafe in Stowe and invites Buck over for cooking lessons after he brings a plate of over-salted chicken to Hen’s birthday dinner. 

Two months later, he joins the volunteer Search and Rescue team they all work on.

In June, Chim hires him on full-time. Buck learns to repair roofs, to identify faulty wiring, how to install backsplash in a kitchen and fix minor plumbing issues in bathrooms.

In July, Buck realizes he’s a part of a family. 

_I have to keep my head up. I have to believe that I can heal, that I can trust, that I can live._

_That, eventually, I can love._

_War might have taken things from me, might have stolen pieces of my security and self-worth, but I can do more than survive. I can take what’s left and make it whole._

_I just need to trust my son when he says-_ — _you’ll be okay, kid (Tango Uniform, p. 207)_

Eddie Diaz is—

Eddie Diaz looks—

Christ.

In Rio, Buck would have brought him out the pier, would have sunken them in the ocean and used his hands to make Eddie feel good. In Miami, he would have gotten on his knees, had Eddie’s fingers pulling in his hair. In Texas, he would have pushed him over the pool table, felt Eddie’s skin against his own.

In Vermont, he’s going to woo the fuck out of him.

He’s going to love him, and he’s going to do it the right way.

He shifts his tool bag over his shoulder and smiles. “Hey,” he says, taking in Eddie’s face, the way his teeth drag over his lips and his eyes widen slightly, the flush that grows on his cheeks as he looks at Buck. “I’m Evan Buckley.”

**Author's Note:**

> tumblr @ [hearteyesforbuck](http://hearteyesforbuck.tumblr.com) ... always taking prompts for this universe!


End file.
